Desert Days
It’s hot out there folks, so you know what that means—fight fire with fire, crank up the heat, love your blisters till they callous. Just grab onto whatever you can.
We live and we die, duh. These are the desert days—and they don't get any better than this!
My little brother died just after midnight on January 20, 2023. We buried a handful of his ashes in the Smoky Mountains on his 28th birthday that May. I know we weren’t supposed to. What choice did we have? It was one of his wishes; I’d fulfill them all if I could.
These cursed wanderers have built a rich musical tradition over centuries. So sink your teeth into the gothic country of the cowboys of vampire valley. But best you get inside before the sun sets—strange things tend to happen here after dark.
Every so often, I find myself foolish enough to make a country music Earwyrms. Arguably, the last era of popular country that was any good was the 1990s, which is precisely where Plains gets all of their inspiration. It was last time any country woman got on the radio, and they led the industry—actually, they dominated.
Peyote Rock was built by nature’s outliers—crust-punks and cowpokes, volcanic pariahs, those who need their country music with a glass eye and a switchblade. Don’t know what I mean? Just listen.
Las Vegas spills before me like lightning threaded to the floor. I’m south of town, ten miles from the Strip, which is framed like a still life by my eleventh-floor view, neon glowing lurid on my hotel floor.
What I love about country, when it's good, is that it's not afraid to be vulnerable, to be heartbroken, to be sobbing drunk on the bathroom floor every once in a while.
It’s hot out there folks, so you know what that means—fight fire with fire, crank up the heat, love your blisters till they callous. Just grab onto whatever you can.